The Gardener's Tithe

The daily arrival of the fairy-borne basket had become a new, revered ritual in Silverwood. The tiny, glowing envoys of the Gardener would zip through the Living Gate, carrying their precious cargo, and deliver it to the platform outside Lord Arion's dwelling before vanishing back into the Sanctum.

The offerings were treated with the utmost reverence. The fruits and vegetables, still pulsing with the vibrant life-force of the Sanctum, were brought before the Grand Druid. He would inspect each one, not as food, but as a sacred text, divining its properties and marveling at the sheer potency the Gardener was able to cultivate.

At first, Lord Arion would reject his portion. "This bounty is for the people," he would say. "My time is nearing its end. Let the young and strong benefit."

But the other elders and Elara would have none of it. "Venerable One," Elara insisted one evening, presenting him with a perfect, shimmering Apple of Enlightenment. "The Gardener honors you with this offering. We have all seen it. He bows to you. To refuse his gift would be an insult to the blessings he brings to our land."

Forced by their logic and his duty to honor the Gardener's intentions, Arion would relent, accepting a small portion. And with every bite, his ancient body felt stronger, his mind sharper, his connection to the world around him more profound. The Gardener's tithe was not just sustaining their society; it was actively reversing the gentle decay of their most revered elder.

The rest of the daily harvest was distributed amongst the people. A "Tasting of the Gardener's Bounty" became a daily twilight ceremony in the main plaza of Silverwood. A single tomato would be sliced into a hundred slivers, a single carrot shared among dozens of families. It was not enough for a meal, but enough for a taste, for a small, potent dose of the Sanctum's magic. The effect on the city was palpable. The elven children seemed more energetic, the artisans more creative, the guards more alert. The city hummed with a newfound vitality.

And with this growing sense of gratitude came a growing desire to give back.

They were elves. They did not deal in gold or currency. Their wealth was in their craft, their connection to nature, and the time they had to perfect their arts. How could they possibly repay a being who could create life-altering fruit and command nature spirits?

Lord Arion convened a council of elders in his chamber.

"The Gardener continues to bestow his blessings upon us," he began, his voice stronger than it had been in a century. "His gifts have invigorated our people and strengthened our world. But we have given him nothing in return."

An elder sculptor, whose family had worked with living wood for three thousand years, spoke up. "We help him tend his garden, Lord Arion. It is a small service, but it is one we can offer."

"It is not enough," Arion countered. "I have observed him in the scrying pool. After he toils in his garden, he does not return to his own realm. He sleeps on the cold moss of the Sanctum floor, vulnerable, with nothing but his little spirits for comfort."

The council chamber fell silent. The image was a disturbing one. Their revered Gardener, the Chosen of the Three, sleeping on the ground like a common vagabond. It was a failing on their part. An immense oversight.

"It is our duty," Arion declared, his eyes glowing with purpose, "to provide him with a shelter. A place of rest and peace within his own sacred garden, worthy of his station."

Another elder, a master weaver whose tapestries were said to show visions of the future, nodded in agreement. "A dwelling, yes! But what kind? We do not know his tastes or his customs."

"It must be of our finest work," said the sculptor. "Fashioned not from dead wood, but from the living boughs of the Silverwood trees themselves."

"It must be enchanted," added a wizened loremaster. "Woven with runes of rest, of peace, and of protection, to ensure his slumber is undisturbed."

"It should be in his preferred resting place," Elara spoke for the first time, her voice soft but clear. "In the small, quiet meadow where the stars are brightest. He seems to find comfort there."

A plan began to form, a grand project that united all the great artisans of the city. The sculptors would guide the growth of the trees. The weavers would create tapestries of preserved leaves and woven light for comfort. The runemasters would imbue the very structure with potent, gentle magic. They would not build him a house of wood and stone. They would grow him a living home, a perfect synthesis of nature and magic, a gift worthy of a god.

Their goal was set. When the Gardener next returned, he would find them at work, not in his garden, but in his meadow, preparing his sanctuary. They could only hope he would understand and accept their humble offering.